


Ptilonorhynchus Violaceus

by Spidergwenstefani



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Merchandise, Love Confessions, M/M, bowerbirds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 02:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16735332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spidergwenstefani/pseuds/Spidergwenstefani
Summary: “You have a problem,” Steve says.“Good morning to you too.”“No, I mean it. How much Hawkeye stuff have you bought in the last few months?”“None.” Bucky puts on his best I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about face. Steve is having none of it.“Sure,” he says, scanning the living area. “That’s why I can see two mugs, an umbrella, a pencil set, and the socks you’re wearing. And that’s just in this room alone.”AKA Clint uses Hawkeye merch to show his affection





	Ptilonorhynchus Violaceus

**Author's Note:**

> not-the-blue did [this](https://not-the-blue.tumblr.com/post/183122669826/so-you-know-how-i-still-cant-get-over) amazing illustration for this fic and it's my favorite thing in the whole world!! go look!!! 
> 
> I'm such a fan of fics that mention Clint's extensive merch collection. This is actually a revamp of a hawkdevil fic I started years ago. I couldn't get the right vibe with it. I guess because Matt was really supposed to be Bucky all along :P
> 
> I'm sorry if the ending to this is dumb. It's late and I honestly can't tell if my writing is trash once I get sleepy.

“Happy Birthday!”

Bucky stares blankly at Clint, not sure what to do with the crumpled ball of wrapping paper that was thrust into his hands. It’s lumpy and silver, shedding enough glitter that Bucky’s sweatpants are already sparkling.

“It’s not my birthday.”

It isn’t. He’s pretty sure it isn’t. He’s been asking Jarvis to alert him of all the key dates Steve would expect him to remember, and today’s been free of notifications. Also, he’s pretty sure his birthday is during the winter. Or fall, at least. He remembers it being cold out.

“Just open it,” Natasha says with an eye roll.

Bucky hesitates. The only reason he came down to the communal floor was because Jarvis alerted him that Clint was in immediate peril. He had raced down the emergency exit stairs and nearly broken down the door, bursting into the living room with a knife in each hand. What he walked in on, however, was not a horrific crime scene. It looked more like a mellow movie night.

He can feel eyes on him as the other team members notice the sparkly lump Clint’s handed him. Thor is doing that forced-disinterest thing he does when he’s trying not to ruin someone else’s prank. Bruce has actually put down his tablet. Bucky estimates there’s about a seventy percent chance this thing is going to explode, but Clint’s face is so goddamn hopeful, he just thinks _fuck it_ and tears into the paper.

Glitter gives way to a more recognizable shape, glossy and purple, with a big ‘H’ on the front. Bucky frowns as he holds the thing up to the light, trying to figure out if he’s missing something.

“Is this… a Hawkeye mug?”

Tony gives a spluttering snort like he’s been holding back a laugh. The rest of the team dissolves, only Steve having the decency to hide his smile behind his book.

“We all get Hawkeye merch at some point or another,” Nat explains, holding up her arrow necklace. “Clint made a dumbass deal with the souvenir companies that he would get some of the products instead of a cut from the profit.”

“I stand by that decision,” Clint sniffs, feigning hurt.

“And I’m sure your landlord appreciates it when rent is due,” Sam snipes from one of the armchairs.

“Joke’s on you. I’m my own landlord.” Clint looks moments away from actually sticking his tongue out at Sam.

Bucky runs his fingers over the H while the conversation turns to Clint’s poor financial decisions. He bites down a small smile. Sure, he spends most of the day training with Steve and Natasha, working with Tony to improve on his arm, and recently he’s tagged along for more Avengers missions than not, but the dumb mug feels important, somehow. Like some sort of badge. A symbol of becoming an official Avenger.

>>=========>

Bucky stomps his feet a little, pretending it’s to kick some snow out of his way and not because his steel-toed boots are doing nothing to keep his feet warm. There are so many things he loves about the tiny, family-run noodle places that have popped up around New York sometime in the past seventy years, but the lack of indoor seating isn’t one of them.

“Hey man, you good?” Clint leans in a little closer, probably because of the sharp wind that’s just picked up again. It was his idea to grab some dumplings after they wiped the floor with a warehouse full of HYDRA agents.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, but Clint’s leaning too heavily against him not to notice the involuntary shiver that runs up Bucky’s spine. He _really_ needs to get in on the backup-bag-with-warm-civilian-clothes thing.

Clint frowns for a moment before turning to rummage around in said backup bag, which now holds his collapsible bow and Hawkeye costume. He pulls out a fringed scarf, the same shade of purple-blue as nearly everything he owns, and wraps it around Bucky’s neck for him.

“I don’t want to take your scarf,” Bucky protests, albeit lightly. The scarf is damn warm. And softer than he was expecting.

Clint waves him off. “I’ve got tons. They send me a few every winter.”

“Who-?” Bucky cuts himself off with a groan as he sees the dark purple _H_ knitted into the end of it. “This is more of your Hawkeye, shit, isn’t it?”

Bucky isn’t expecting the shit-eating grin Clint gives him to make his stomach twist the way it does. Luckily, he has a nice new scarf to hide his blush behind.

>>==========>

“Are you wearing… pink?”

Clint turns at the question, smiling as he sees Bucky enter the gym. He’s wrapping up his arms, poised in front of a punching bag, which. Huh. Bucky’s never seen Clint spend his training hours boxing, but suddenly he’s _way_ more interested in being on the gym floor than in his original plan to head to the pool first.

“It’s more of a pastel violet, really,” Clint says, putting his hands up and shifting into position. The pastel violet shirt in question looks like it’s ready to bust its shoulder seams.

“Still, not your usual shade.” Clint takes a swing at the punching bag, the thud echoing through the gym. Bucky parks himself on a nearby bench. If he’s focused on boxing, maybe Clint’ll forget to ask why Bucky changed into full workout gear just to chat.

“It’s Kate’s color,” Clint says as he lands a few solid jabs. “I can’t just go around representing half the Hawkeyes, can I?”

Bucky’s eyes are glued to Clint’s shoulders as he switches to hooks. Christ. Why does the team make such a fuss over Steve’s muscles when they have _Clint?_

“But you _are_ half the Hawkeyes.” Bucky’s voice comes out a little dazed, so he clears his throat.

“Yeah.” Clint switches back to jabs, slipping his words in between punches. “It.” _Thud._ “Annoys.” _Thud._ “The.” _Thud._ “Shit.” _Thud._ “Outta.” _Thud._ “Kate.” _Thud._ “Though.” _Thud._

Clint steps back, grabbing the swinging punching bag to steady it. He looks over at Bucky as he starts to unwrap his arms. His eyes are bright, and the way his chest is heaving stretches the damn shirt out even more. His cheeks are about as pastel violet as his shirt.

“You want a partner?” Bucky blurts out. Because he’s a masochist, apparently. Or maybe Clint Barton is just his own kind of kryptonite. Purple kryptonite. Clint just beams at him.

Twenty minutes later and Bucky finds himself pinned to the floor, sweat in his eyes and the cartoonish face of Kate Bishop giving him a stretched out wink from Clint’s chest.

Bucky’s still not sure how he got here. Sure, he can come up with some excuse. He didn’t pin Clint for a fancy footwork kinda guy, or maybe he wasn’t expecting such a solid bolo punch. He’ll swear under oath he didn’t get distracted by Clint Barton and his _fucking pink shirt._

“You really like the shirt, huh?” Clint says, sitting back on Bucky’s legs so he can wipe the sweat off his brow.

“Um.”

“I’ve got more if you want one.” Clint stands up then, offering a hand to Bucky. He takes it, heaving himself back onto his feet.

He takes the coldest shower of his life, all plans of swimming completely abandoned. By the time he gets back to his room, there’s a haphazardly folded pastel violet bundle on his bed.

>>==========>

“Did you know,” Clint says, draping his head across Bucky’s lap as way of greeting, “that they make Hawkeye boxers?” There’s plenty of room on the couch for Clint to stretch out in his own zone, but he’s the human version of a golden retriever and Bucky’s got about as much luck pushing away either.

“Yeah?” Bucky indulges him, setting his book on the side table so he can scratch his fingers through Clint’s hair. He’s seen Nat do the same about a hundred times before, and he always thought Clint’s resulting bonelessness was just a Black Widow thing. It must be a universal response, though, because Clint hums happily and melts into the couch.

“Yeah. Ones with arrows. Ones with targets. Ones with my symbol on them. Kind of makes you wonder who would wear something like that.”

“I can think of one person,” Bucky says. Clint actually freezes for a moment, going a little tense against Bucky’s legs. Bucky scratches his fingers against his scalp again, trying to get him back to his liquid state.

“Oh. Oh, me. You mean me.”

“Obviously,” Bucky snorts, tugging a little on the hair at the back of Clint’s head.

“I got sent too many pairs for just me to wear them. It feels a little too forward to just hand them off to Cap or something, right?”

“Give me a few pairs. I’ll sneak some in his dresser,” Bucky says, grinning at the idea of bright purple boxers tucked into Steve’s pile of black SHIELD regulation briefs.

“Will do,” Clint says, pressing his face into Bucky’s thigh like he’s about to fall asleep right there. Bucky runs his fingers through the short hair on the back of Clint’s neck, swallowing down the realization that those boxers aren’t going to make their way anywhere near Steve’s room.

>>==========>

“You have a problem,” Steve says, letting himself into Bucky’s floor like they still share rent. Bucky doesn’t indulge him, keeping his eyes glued to his book as he stretches out further on the couch.

“Good morning to you too.”

“No, I mean it. How much Hawkeye stuff have you bought in the last few months?”

“None.” Bucky puts on his best I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about face. Steve is having none of it.

“Sure,” he says, scanning the living area. “That’s why I can see two mugs, an umbrella, a pencil set, and the _socks you’re wearing_. And that’s just in this room alone.”

Bucky tugs down the ends of his sweatpants to cover the socks. Steve rolls his eyes.

“I know you’ve got more money than you know what to do with, but this isn’t a smart way to spend it, Buck. What, is your bedroom full of Black Widow merchandise?”

His bedroom probably has even more Hawkeye shit, but Bucky’s not about to share that fact. “I’m serious, though. I didn’t buy any of it.”

“Well, where’d you get it, then?” Steve kicks suspiciously at a pair of purple slippers on the rug. Bucky just shrugs.

“Clint.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up like the idea of getting Hawkeye merch from Hawkeye is some kind of fucking revelation. Bucky pointedly raises his book up further over his face.

“Oh?” Steve says, and he sounds so much like Sarah Rogers it’s hard not to laugh. “ _Oh?_ ”

“Jesus, Stevie. You act like he gave me a Hawkeye brand dildo. They’re just things.”

Steve presses his mouth into a flat line, squinting at Bucky.

“Did. Did he give you-”

“ _Get out._ ”

>>==========>

Bucky finds Bruce sitting at the kitchen counter three days later. He prefers his first few hours awake to be spent alone, but if he had to pick any team member to invade his morning routine, Bruce would be first on the list. Well, second.

He’s got his nose in a book, as usual. He tilts his head towards Bucky in acknowledgment, but he lets the kitchen fall into an easy silence as Bucky sets about making coffee. Nobody on the team does it quite like Bucky likes it. Steve’s is still the weak watery stuff of wartime rations, and Clint’s is almost at army sludge levels. Bucky takes a cup down as the machine gurgles away, picking his Hawkeye mug off the shelf on autopilot.

Bruce clears his throat, and it’s so soft that Bucky almost doesn’t notice. He turns to see Bruce’s set down his book. He’s giving a contemplative look to the area somewhere around Bucky’s knee, and it takes a moment for Bucky to realize he’s wearing Hawkeye pajama pants.

“Have you ever heard of a bowerbird?”

“A what?” Bucky asks. Bruce is nice enough. They’ve had good talks before, but sometimes Bucky catches him in a particularly scientific mood and can’t understand half the things the guy says.

“A bowerbird. They’re a type of songbird. There’s plenty of genera, but they all have pretty elaborate courtship rituals.”

“Um.”

“The satin bowerbird is my personal favorite. To attract a mate, the males collect all kinds of random objects to decorate their nest. They favor one color in particular.”

“Is. Is it purple?” Bucky asks. Bruce just squints at him.

The coffee machine beeps and Bucky leaps on the excuse to break eye contact. He focuses on making the perfect cup, feeling Bruce’s stare against his back the whole time.

“It’s blue,” Bruce says finally, closing his book and getting up from his seat. Bucky gives him a nod goodbye, taking a sip of his still-steaming coffee to avoid having to say anything else. Bruce glances at the mug, smiling to himself. “Funny, all the things animals will come up with to get a mate. Romance is hard when you haven’t learned how to speak.”

Bucky swallows his scalding mouthful of coffee. He listens to Bruce’s footsteps fading away and tells himself the heat in his face is just from the steam.

>>==========>

Clint opens his door before Bucky’s even stopped knocking, although he squints at him like he’s still waking up. Bucky hesitates, then, the speech he’s been mentally rehearsing on the elevator ride up suddenly fizzling out like a wet firework. He’s been trying to sleep for the last three hours, mugs and scarves and fucking _bowerbirds_ dancing in his head every time he tries to close his eyes. Apparently Clint’s been having better luck than him, although the fog of sleep is already clearing from his eyes while Bucky stands in his doorway, gaping like an idiot.

“Bucky? Is something wrong?”

“I’m wearing your boxers,” Bucky blurts out, which is not at _all_ part of the speech he planned. Clint just blinks at him. His hair is flattened on one side, the other side spiked from sleep. He’s got a blanket draped over his shoulders, and he pulls it tighter as he leans against the doorway. Bucky tries again. “I mean- Um. Have you ever heard of a bowerbird?”

“Are you okay?” Clint asks, genuine concern making its way through his sleepy mumbles. He blinks, then frowns. “You’re wearing my boxers?”

“Not- I didn’t _take_ \- the ones I said I’d put in Steve’s dresser. I kept them. I wear them. They make me think of you, and I, um. I like thinking of you. I like _you._ ”

“You’re wearing my boxers?” Clint repeats. His voice is clearer now, and the light of the hallway is dim, but Bucky swears there’s a dusting of pastel violet on Clint’s cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to lead with that,” Bucky says. He puts his hands in the pockets of his pajama pants and almost curses when he realizes he’s wearing his Hawkeye ones again.

“You like me, and you’re wearing my boxers?” Clint says, and now he’s grinning. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, and Bucky sees a flash of red as the blanket falls off his shoulder.

“Is that a Winter Soldier blanket?” he asks, a little dumbfounded because _do they even make those?_ Clint bites his lip, grinning bashfully down at his bare feet.

“Mrs. Rosenthal- Uh, an old lady in my apartment building- she knitted it for me. Birthday present. I think she forgets I’m Hawkeye most of the time, but. I talk about the Winter Soldier a lot, I guess.”

“Your birthday was in June,” Bucky says, and he can feel the grin on his own face too. Clint looks up at him. There’s something new and bright in his eyes.

“I’ve been talking about you for a while.”

“I’ve been wearing your boxers for a while,” Bucky admits.

“You look really good in purple,” Clint says, _sighs,_ like the words have been holed up inside him too long. He stands up straight then, pushing away from the door frame and closer into Bucky’s space. Bucky’s left hand glints in the dim hallway light as he grabs a handful of the blanket, pulling Clint so close their noses are almost touching.

“I’d like to see you in red,” Bucky almost whispers. Clint beams at him, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Bucky’s hair and press their lips together.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at spidergwenstefani! send me prompts! talk to me! I love you!


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